


(i love it when you call me) señorita

by Tuesdayschildd



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1950s, F/M, Kink Week, Romance, Smut, Song fic, Varchie!Centric, Vintage Cars, apparently my kink is romance this week?, i refused, maybe thats why i couldn't produce anything else, senorita, theme 5: variety is the spice of life, theme 6: choose your own smutventure, theres no motorcycle here kids, time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 03:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuesdayschildd/pseuds/Tuesdayschildd
Summary: He comes here with his guitar nightly more often than not. Something about this time of night does wonders for Archie’s fingers strumming across the strings aimlessly, the vibrations getting lost in the wind as the ocean carries it out on the tides. The sea breeze sweeps salty drops into the air, and it's impossible to completely rid his instrument of the sand that continues to sneak into the body over time. But it doesn’t matter.





	(i love it when you call me) señorita

_‘Cause you know it’s been a long time coming_

_Don’t you let me fall_

_. . . . ._

She takes off her soiled apron when the last drunk teenagers stumble out the door, the chime ringing shrilly before their voices carry out into the empty parking lot and dark heat of the summer night. 

Veronica slips the worn ribbon out of her ponytail, fluffing her frizzed onyx locks free as she rolls her shoulders and scoops up the pitiful tip the kids left her littered across the formica amongst dirty napkins. This job was supposed to be temporary — _just to mid-July _her mother had said — just long enough to keep up with the bills until they found their footing again. But July came and went, and Veronica had scars from hot plates on her forearms and couldn’t get the smell of grease out of her clothes as she looked deep into August. Waiting every night for the last customer to toss a few coins her way, she’d tuck them deep into her pockets, wiping down the sticky tables and shutting off the buzzing fluorescent lights as fast as she could manage. 

Leaving her alone to lock up, the cook had slipped out the back door twenty minutes ago. Veronica had shut off the air conditioning at one am, hoping to push the obnoxious group out faster as the heat crept in, but it had taken another whole hour of their loitering before they did. Now a sheen of sweat sticks her uniform to her back as she unplugs the jukebox and the last murmurs of The Diamonds fade into the night. 

Stepping out onto the asphalt of the humid city, she turns east towards the sound of gently crashing waves and a certain someone she knows will be waiting for her. 

_I love it when you call me señorita_

_I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya_

_But every touch is..._

He comes here with his guitar nightly more often than not. Something about this time of night does wonders for Archie’s fingers strumming across the strings aimlessly, the vibrations getting lost in the wind as the ocean carries it out on the tides. The sea breeze sweeps salty drops into the air, and it's impossible to completely rid his instrument of the sand that continues to sneak into the body over time. But it doesn’t matter.

The other reason for his nightly occupations walks down the shore line toward him, tennis shoes tucked in one hand as her tiny feet leave fading impressions in the wet silky sand. Her hair whips wildly in the breeze, enough light from streetlights beyond the dunes to accentuate it against the contrast of her yellow uniform. He can already smell her sweet scent lost in its strands.

Every night feels like the first again — that fate filled evening he stepped off a plane and ended up wandering on this beach in the late hours. He wouldn’t let him know it, but he was grateful Jughead hadn’t answered his phone leaving Archie stranded without an address -- stranded and wandering an unknown city until he settled into the sand and pulled the guitar off his back awaiting the sunrise.

She finds him in a similar position now as she did then, fingers dancing across his strings as he continues plucking away at the little melody he’s been working on, the one he always plays when he sees her approaching in the moonlight. 

_Land in Miami_

_The air was hot from summer rain_

_Sweat dripping off me_

_Before I even knew her name_

Her skin itches for his touch as she gets closer, the gentle lap of the waves acting as the bass behind his melodic sonnet. She knows nothing and everything about this man who makes her nerves vibrate with want and yearn for his lips against hers every night. 

She drops her shoes as he lays his guitar down carefully on the blanket next to him, ready as she drops straight down into his lap without preamble, knees framing his thighs tightly. They don’t waste a second. They never do.

His hands cup her cheeks as she pulls him closer by the collar of his t-shirt, plump lips sighing into his mouth in relief — relief the day is ending, to finally be here with him on this deserted beach. Just them, the waves, and the breeze. 

The kiss speaks of quiet desperation and solace in the darkness on the hot sand, and he’s desperate for her right back as the wind envelops them.

He can never get enough of the taste of her — from the first time his lips ever touched her neck as she stood high on her bare feet in front of him, a beautiful stranger clutching his shoulders after hours of conversation as they swayed to the rhythm of the ocean that first night. She had picked his hand up to twirl under, teaching him how to show her off to the moon and dip her here and there, helping her wrap her leg sensually around his waist — running his hands up her sides and brushing the sides of her breasts gently as he got bolder. His hands had wrapped around her waist as they did now, pulling her body to fit tight into his, needing the heat of it to ground him. 

_Sapphire moonlight_

_We danced for hours in the sand_

_Tequila sunrise_

_Her body fit right in my hands_

Fingers slip under the hem of her skirt now, sliding north until they brush the edge of lace and then knead the flesh of her backside. Her hands thread into his hair like they always do. She tastes like blackberries bursting under his tongue, this Latina princess who’s biting his lower lip as he pulls her full hips closer to him -- hips he wants to spend forever between. 

He grows hard beneath her, and she can’t resist searching for that friction they crave every night, pulling a moan from his throat when she tugs sharply on his hair. His fingers dig into the skin of her thighs and pull her in, pull her closer as her lips dance across his neck in an aimless routine to get his pulse thumping. She can’t help but bite down onto his shoulder when he tilts her hips _just so _against him, tightening her knees into his sides to keep the pressure building, keep them getting closer. 

He slows her movements with his hands steady on her waist, wanting to slow this frenzy down and savor this always-too-quick intensity between them. They’ve been on fire since the second they met, and the flames just keep growing nightly like the hot breeze keeps throwing kindling at them on the sand. 

When he murmurs into her ear, her heavy breath catches in her throat and her hands search for the loop of his belt in desperation. 

_I love it when you call me señorita_

_I wish I could pretend I didn't need you_

_But every touch is ooh la la la_

_It's true..._

She’s here every night, hopeless against him in the dark — him and his rough hands against her skin that call to her across the sand.

He craves her heat around him, the noises in her throat at his ear like a book of sin laid out in front of him. She’s bewitching, the veil of her hair all around his face as her sexy floral scent embraces him, and he wonders what he did to deserve her attention. 

His fingers swipe across damp lace just a moment before her tiny hand is reaching down into his jeans. He can’t slow her down anymore, at her mercy when she wraps her tight fist around him, the motion choking the breath from his chest. He sneaks beneath her panties, their hands clawing for the heat between their legs towards the rolling temptation deep in their bellies.

It’s him who guides her up despite his earlier need to slow down, always too quick to get here, finding her wet heat as she helps him push her lace to the side and sinks swiftly down onto him. Hes ravenous for her grip on his soul as he pulls his name from her lips. There’s no care that somebody could see or hear them from the street beyond the dunes, so wrapped up in one another that the world could come crashing down in rapture all around them and they’d still be getting lost in each other’s touch as the ashes fell.

_Ooh, I should be running_

_Ooh, you know I love it _

She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be so smitten for this redheaded man she hardly knows, so reliant on his touch, his taste, his sounds, that's like oxygen to her soul. His stifled moan thrills her as she eases her hips against his, riding the waves of intensity on this hot Miami night. She needs this. Needs him and this chasing feeling in her belly that _throbs_ for him as he does for her. He makes her forget her life, her shitty job and her shitty circumstances, a fallen princess from the heights of luxury -- oysters to brown bagged lunches. 

_Ooh, I should be running_

_Ooh, you keep me coming for ya_

_. . . . ._

It’s Tuesday, and there’s one old man asleep on the bar and a couple college kids at a table in the corner as Archie finishes up his set. Playing to empty sticky tables and drab walls, nobody is paying attention to him strumming his guitar on the small wooden stool on the pathetic-excuse-for-a-stage. Truthfully, he hasn’t been paying much attention either. 

He can’t stop thinking about onyx hair, stained lips, and sparkling chocolate eyes as he packs up his guitar and nods his head to the bored bartender before he slips out the front door. He won’t get paid until Friday. 

_Locked in the hotel_

_There's just some things that never change_

_You say we're just friends_

_But friends don't know the way you taste_

She’s there before him, Room 212 like always. He thinks the girl at the desk doesn’t give the room to anyone else, and honestly, he doesn’t even want to know if she does.

This is their space. Stained walls and murky carpet, and Veronica doesn’t ever bat an eye as he presses her into the worn comforter. She’s told him a bit about her life before, before her father left town and all their valuable assets were pawned so her mom could make a dent in the piles of bills. Save for the pearl earrings in her dainty earlobes and the occasional scoff at the quality of her coffee, he’d have no hint of her life before. For now, she has no qualms dropping to her knees on the questionable threads of a motel rug. 

He feels the same insatiable thirst for her. It doesn’t matter if they’re on the beach, in a motel, or a suite at the Biltmore. He wants her anywhere.

There’s something about being between her thighs that saves him, makes him forget the shitty town and life he left behind to find a new one. He prays to the sounds of her breath catching in her throat when his steady hips angle to that spot deep inside, and no chord or lyric he could ever write could ever sound as beautiful as his name behind her lips. He watches as her face catches the streaks of lamp light coming in through the shades. He’s mesmerized by the strands of her hair brushing back and forth against the cheap sheets.

Her hands claw at his neck to drag his mouth to her burning lips, her tongue meeting his in a moment of pause. His hips still as her fingers leisurely graze into his hair, distracting him, drinking him into her until he can’t remember his name.

_Ooh, when your lips undress me_

_Hooked on your tongue_

_Ooh love, your kiss is deadly_

_Don't stop_

He knows every inch of her skin and can whisper words into her neck until she’s desperate for his hands on her body. 

He’s her addiction. 

Breathless and in desperate need of something to grab onto as her dress bunches at her waist, she reaches out around her for something to ground her to this bed. His mumbled words against her neck are pleading, chasing towards an ecstasy between these four walls they can only ever find again together.

_But every touch is ooh la la la_

_It's true, la la la_

_Ooh,I should be running_

_Ooh, you know I love it when you call me…_

_. . . . ._

Two middle aged women nurse a pot of coffee in the back booth as an older gentleman settles into his third piece of cherry pie at the counter. It’s obnoxiously slow for a Friday night, but Veronica can’t complain. She only counts the hours on the wall clock until she’s free to escape this travesty of an establishment. The bell rings above the door, and she looks up over the edge of her glasses, pausing the wet rag in her hand against the counter when she eyes the familiar flash of red hair and cheeky grin. 

He looks so damn good tonight in his faded jeans and white t-shirt.

She lets Archie lean all the way over the counter to kiss her cheek, his sweet lips tingling against her skin, and she resists the urge to pull him back towards her across the formica to lay one on him. She pours him a cup of a coffee he barely touches.

The old man doesn’t bat an eye when they disappear into the back after a few minutes of silent flirting. The metal of the shelving unit digs into her spine as Archie hikes her legs up around his waist, cupping her head to keep her mouth on his as his fingers make quick work of the layers between them. She doesn’t register the discomfort, only the feeling dancing low in her belly when she has to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. 

He’s vaguely aware of the items dropping from the shelves around them as he presses into her, careless for the mess. Hopeless for this chasing feeling, he can’t remember what the world was like before her. Before her sweet searing kiss, her tender caress, and her intoxicating scent filled up every dead space inside of him he didn’t even know was empty. 

When he feels her walls start to flutter, he manages one hand on her mouth and another at the space where they’re connected, using the shelves to pin her in place until she’s moaning into his palm as his thumb circles her to the next level of heaven. He follows her to that place, hips stuttering as she pulls him in with her, and he forgets all else.

_Ooh, I should be running_

_Ooh, you keep me coming for you_

The women in the booth haven’t even noticed she disappeared, and save for a slight arch of his eyebrow when he slides his empty coffee cup her way, the old man at the counter doesn’t seem to care.

Archie leaves her with another sweet kiss on the cheek before he slips out the door into the muggy night, leaving her with butterflies in her belly and an unwavering smile on her lips. She finishes his lukewarm coffee.

_All along I've been coming for you_

_And I hope it meant something to you_

_. . . . ._

Her bag has been packed for two weeks, under the counter and waiting for the moment it gets to flee out the door with her, her and the savings she’s pulled from her account tucked into her undergarments.

The moment comes four hours into her extended Wednesday shift, when a hot red Buick Roadmaster convertible pulls into the parking lot and lays on the horn. Her apron goes flying backwards towards the kitchen window before she reaches for her bag, grabbing the last few coins on the counter. He has an adorable pair of black and white polka-dot sunglasses waiting for her on the leather front bench-seat.

She jumps over the door in excitement, kicking off her tennis shoes to the floor mat before she gives him the biggest kiss she can muster, right into his smiling lips as he laughs.

The heat bares down on the two of them on the open road, destination: _anywhere_. The radio leaves much to be desired, but when the announcer starts playing a new song by The Everly Brothers and Archie continues singing Wake Up Little Susie for the rest of the night, she can’t even complain a little as they drive into the warm orange sunset, her curled up into his side as he hits the gas.

He pulls off into a scenic outlook when it’s dark and the crickets are calling over the sound of the engine. The stars are so bright this far out from any artificial city lights and he leaves the radio on as she traces her fingers up and down his arm. Somebody’s version of Quizás, Quizás, Quizás plays softly as he tugs on the ends of her hair.

He scoots her legs across his lap and it’s just a quick few moments before his wandering hands wind up underneath her skirt. She laughs before pulling him down to her, laying across the seat and letting his weight push her into the smooth leather. She’ll never grow tired of this, of his lips on her neck, his mouth at her ear, and his fingers dipping between her legs. 

He surprises her tonight, throwing her skirt up so that she can’t see when he pulls down her panties, making her squeal when he tickles the insides of her thighs with the fuzzy stubble on his cheeks before his tongue finds that space that makes her keen. He’s learned her body so well, knows it better than her even, knows exactly how to make her squirm against the seat, knows how to make her breath catch and her toes curl.

The slick noise of his fingers driving into her rivals the serenade of the crickets in the dark, and since there is no one around, she calls out to the sky. The breeze against her bare skin is something else, her hips lifting up off the seat to chase his mouth when he lifts his head to breathe for a moment until he dives back in with such precision, such intensity that she cries out with abandon when she clenches down around him a few seconds later. 

When his belt is undone and his jeans are down around his knees, he slips into her so fast she sees those stars again behind her eyelids. He drives her up until she has to use her hands to stop her head from hitting the car door, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the slick smooth slip of him between her legs is pulling on the coil again so quickly until it snaps, firing her off before he follows dutifully. 

When the sun comes up, and she’s still tucked into his side underneath the blanket he pulled from the back seat, she hums to the chirp of the morning birds and knows she’ll never wake up again without the beating of his heart beneath her head. 

_Call my name, I'll be coming for you_

_Coming for you_

_. . . . ._

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is! Thought I'd switch things up this kink week and go soft.  
Find me on Tumblr @Tuesdayschildd
> 
> Senorita - Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello  
Little Darlin' - The Diamonds (jukebox)  
Quizás, Quizás, Quizás - lots of great versions of this oldie, my favorite right now is by Tonia Saputo


End file.
